Age of The Empires
by Peridot Tears
Summary: Why choose to be mortal, when one can be immortal? This is a different world, and it is quiet here, where the ghosts of a past threaten to overcome with kind killing. Yao and Gilbert, with their young lives, can only slowly learn. Gakuen Hetalia AU. German brothers, Asia siblings, PruHun. USUK if you squint.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Eheheh. Nah._

_..._

China sways in the winds. With the sap of his blood, he is a bamboo forest never breaking. His leaves rustle and the air strikes him; he bends back in an arch, then in the other way, all four sides.

He should have died a long time ago, he thinks, but the fact is that, he has not. Like a dragon, he has lived thousands of years. Sometimes, when he paints calligraphy, he finds himself writing it all down again—Confucius's words permeated the air and lulled him to peace; the Qin emperor played with zither with deathly sting; General Guan's son grew too quickly; Madame Mao, an old lady, was strong to the end...

And Taiwan had the most beautiful eyes, like the night without moon. And Hong Kong loved hawthorn berry sweets, and the Koreas were inseparable, and Japan had the quickest hands. And China pours wine down the rivers, watching the drops disappear into ocher. The tide, shrinking and swelling, never ceases. His land, sad and ancient, will never fail his people. And neither shall he.

...

"You're going away?" Yao asked, astonished. "But, why would you, aru?"

"I'm just dorming, Yao-san!" Kiku replied, smothering irritation. "It's better for me to cloister on the campus, and, anyway, Ludwig-kun and Feliciano-kun are going, too. It is a fine option, do you not think so?"

"Why, though? It's like you don't even want to be around here."

Kiku stopped packing. The statement seemed to have an effect this way, so Yao took the suitcase from him, gently prying his fingers away. When he next spoke, his voice had dropped; a good but telling rarity; the softness was unnerving.

"It's like you're so eager to grow up, Kiku. You're overworking yourself. These days, you're always spending time with those lao wai." Kiku blinked, once. "You're always studying. I'm worried, Kiku. You should slow down a little—I mean—" Kiku, even without being lulled by the tenderness, did not, couldn't, prepare himself for what came next, and when Yao's hand yanked, he jumped and stared at the strand standing between his brother's fingers. Yao had pulled a long, white hair from his head. "—Kiku," Yao continued, "this is too much. I'm really...worried for your health.

"And, it's like you don't even want to be around us anymore. You're spending so much time away from your family."

There was a long silence, prolonged even more by Kiku's hesitation before he slowly, ever slowly, looked down, almost shamefully. A sight Yao was used to, of course, but the contrition was, nevertheless, all too genuine.

This was not the first time they argued. But none had escalated to the physical; at no point in time had Kiku actively begun to leave the house. At no point in time had Yao had to actually wrench him by the hand from the door—not here, not in Beijing, Hong Kong, Taiwan, not anywhere in Asia; anywhere they lived, anywhere they had ever lived. When Kiku chose to school in Singapore, they had gone through the process and moved, enrolling everyone into that same schools ("Singapore is good for schooling; I was just thinking of sending us all there, hao ba, Kiku?"); when Leon had been kicked out of Guangdong's schooling, they had moved straight on to Hong Kong...and Yao, not once, had thought of sitting down and staring, because it was so important to keep the family together. No monetary shortage, no academic crisis, _no government, _they quietly noticed, could keep him from allowing his siblings a better chance for the future, while keeping the them plastered to each other the way the Great Wall was glued to China like a spine.

Then came the day the invitation appeared, from the prestigious, inapplicable W Academy—to all of them; an incredible blessing, one that Yao accepted immediately. A prestigious school, one that only extended invitations in searching for students; how could anyone in the family resist such reputation? Yao had actually felt some tears rolling in his eyes when he read the letters for the fifth time—every detail, every word—and even further when he read it so many more times it became frayed in his fingers.

But it made him more frantic. He was the one in charge of his siblings: To have so many to care for as one grows...

It was exhausting. He had assured himself that he was doing well, if only because he was doing the best he could; and yet, he found himself trying harder and harder all the while; was he trying too hard, now? he wondered. Perhaps he was overbearing, and perhaps he was so preoccupied with not being so that simply stopping and pulling back was an option out of view. And now he could feel his heart thudding, he realized, as he just barely kept Kiku from running away.

His appeal was aimed towards Kiku's downcast eyes. "Kiku. Aniki is worried about you." Perhaps this would have affect?—everyone in their house knew how much he disliked Japanese. Of course it was all right that Kiku spoke it, and all right that Yong Soo spoke Korean—what good comes of severing one from his tongue?—but Yao himself avoided it heartily. Chinese was his language, and it was Chinese he would speak.

Kiku did blink. "It is not...," he said, hesitantly, "that I want to be away from the family. You know it is very important, Yao-san. Family." He blinked, profoundly. "But I want to be with my friends. It is...the only way to expand my mind. How else am I to deal with the world out there?"

Yao let go, Kiku slipped from his fingers. He backed away, blinking blearily, as if a chord had been struck, and it was resonating within his ribs. Kiku had never said as much to him. And yet, he felt as if this had heard this sometime before; as if they had already had this conversation. His mind yielded nothing but a consciousness.

His brother's eyes peeked out at him from beneath straight, black hair. He seemed to almost be pleading.

Yao laughed. His brother looked so small! Like a helpless child... "Ah, Kiku, you're so cute, you know that? You really are growing up too fast...but, you know, if you grow up too fast, you won't live as long...you know that, aru?"

_You don't understand,_ Kiku seemed to think. But the very fact that Yao could see the thought, though this insight was not on the surface, indicated enough—that he did, at least, see, and that he could see a solution in view; his smile, it also indicated. It was so easy, so simple!—and yet, it was only the first step to a long fight to keep his family together; there had been incidents, now a crisis, and his response was to declare the war.

Because, somewhere in his soul, in a burbling well as deep as the end of the sea, Yao felt that this was a lesser evil.

"Fine, then," he said, just as Kiku opened his mouth. "Then, we're going with you."

Not a very thoughtless decision; it was the instinct to keep the blood linked; this decision had been made many, many times. No matter that he barely had enough sleep now, overworking himself alongside simply going to school, and that it was such a drastic way from getting enough to pay the little of the tuition he had to pay, already. As long as the veins were linked, the arteries closed together—then, it was worth it.

Almost as worth it as Kiku's face was?—this time, Yao giggled gently.

For it contorted and he began to splutter, "Yao-san, I cannot— You can't be serious—"

"Aw, you look like a panda that fell down a chimney, aru! Of course, I'm serious!"

"But—Yao-san— Think of the money it would cost— To move the whole family out—"

"But, if we didn't, would you still go dorm?" said Yao, knowing the answer already.

"...Yes," Kiku admitted. "I would. But—"

"Mo mo ceng ceng de, just like an old lady, aru," said Yao, who did not have a habit of rolling his eyes, the only way he refrained from doing so. "We're going. There's no question. Why would you want to move out when you could see this coming, aru? We've been here before. And I'm not concerned about the money, aru, that's why we buy bootleg materials. Don't give me that look, aru. I didn't come to this country to be pushed around by the government's idiocy."

...

The regret made itself known, later. After confiscating Kiku's suitcase entirely—"Don't pull that ninja thing with me, I have the power to keep you out of dorming if I wanted to anyway"—he took the time to think it all over again. Even took a walk in the garden. Napped next to some chrysanthemums—Kiku's namesake; and even in Japanese was the name beautiful—hazily watching the white petals drift by the blue of the sky.

Times like this were the most serene; he had no choice but to rest and think.

_What a stupid thing I've done, _he said to himself, watching the sky. His mind flickered, wavered, moved the way candle-flame does, the way he slipped in and out of sleep.

But that was fine; so much more than fine. This was calming. The only sleep he could get any time, really.

He blinked a little, pondering the situation, the way his mind had calmed from a race he had not realized he was in; he had run, he had won, and yet, through it all, he had not noticed that what he was fighting for was...indeed, being fought for at all. His heart had been thunder-shot; it had contorted itself this way and that as he panicked, and the adrenaline had been enough so that his focus was on keeping Kiku, running before he could walk. And now he was slowing down, for the garden's movements were sluggish but graceful. Here, he could think.

He turned over; the grass was soft here, as soft as the grass in his home country. He had never actually understood why his siblings were so varied; Xiao Mei was Taiwanese, Leon was a Hong Konger, the Im brothers were Korean (_gaoli bangzi,_ he thought to himself with a smile), and Kiku was Japanese (_xiao riben, _he thought there, too).

Then, he frowned, backpedaling a little in his mind; that wasn't right—the grass here was soft, but...not in China. Not in his home country. In the country, yes, in certain places where it was clean—(these days, such places did not exist in China anymore, and if they did, Yao had not found them)—but he had no memories of grass in the city. Although he had wandered throughout China, moving his family with him, to work, he had come straight from the heart of Beijing. Or was it Shandong?—he shook his head, mind fuzzy; nevertheless, there was no grass in the city, in his home country. China must have been very clean once, perhaps in more ancient days...

He sighed to himself a little, out loud, the puff of it swaying a leaf. It was exhausting work, to think. And now he would have to work a little more overtime to pay for dormitories for all of them.

This time, he did slide into sleep for some solid hours more.

_And the grass was truly, extraordinarily soft and springy; no city grass could really compare._

_Even with his blood on it; at least it feeds it. He rolls over a little, the autumn leaves sprinkling his face, and he faces the sky, which is very, very blue, the straight, curving parallel to the ground, and the body of his newly-dead brother._

_He refuses to look at Kiku's body, so shrunken now in the samurai armor; but, he has won, and he refuses to face him, look at the dead eyes and say, "It was for me, and for Yong Soo." But he does look at the sky, tired, gripping his side, where Kiku ripped his katana, wondering if he too can die if he bleeds enough. He looks at the sky, and whispers to himself, to the body, "Xiao, xiao ri ben."_

_And the grass is soft, his heart shrinking and opening again—_

_..._

"Like, why?" said Leon, bland eyes staring at Yao. "When I said I want to move out, I meant, like, in my own house or something."

"That's why Xian Sheng is so scared of letting you see the fraternities," Mei said bluntly. "It's called the Empty Nest Syndrome, because Xian Sheng's going through mid-life crisis. Isn't that right, Xian Sheng?"

"Well, we're here!" said Yao, loudly, ignoring them. ("Xian Sheng's just in denial," Mei said to Leon, who nodded knowingly.") He pulled the car into the lot, W Academy looming grandly above them. Spires and arches—he sighed, muttering to himself, "Look at where all our tuition money is going. All right, da jia!" he said, louder now. "Get out of the car, get your bags."

W Academy was a large campus, surprising for a school with hardly a few hundred students. Buildings, bridges—even a lake. And after the working process of settling in—there were many of them, and so while they had much more to settle with, it was done in a procession of messy proficiencies—they went their own ways, and Yao had to walk to his first class without his siblings.

Age of The Empires—a good class with a good name—in the largest lecture hall he had ever seen.

"Ludwig," he greeted Kiku's friend, and took a seat beside him in the very first row—a statement to be made, for there were about fifty—(he did not quite count, and was very sure there were more)—layers of table sloping down step by step from the double doors, and aisles, to boot; he pulled out laptop and Ludwig his.

"Hallo, Yao," Ludwig said back, pushing his glasses onto his nose. _So cute,_ Yao thought. "How was the homework?"

_Wonderful conversation starter: _"Very easy, aru," he said cheerfully, not hiding the cocky streak. "I mean, China is my homeland—aru—so of course I would know it."

Ludwig cocked his head, thoughtfully, conversationally in a way Yao was familiar to now, "Ah, the other day, at the first mention of...Qin...Shee...Huang..." with careful voicing, and errors all the same "...I could swear, I saw a glint in your eyes."

Yao laughed. "Yes, aru. I've always been interested in my history, I grew up on it. But what about you, Ludwig?"

A wince. "Well, my brother and I are very interested in Prussian history..."

And they were so indulged in their own talk, into such a world of chronicled happenings that they jumped when Gilbert stepped into the room after the professor, and the latter started into the microphone as if he had left off from someplace. "THEY SAY," he boomed, and Ludwig and Yao stared ahead, fingers poised at once, "THAT ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME. LAST WEEK IT WAS ABOUT CHINA, BECAUSE IT'S ONE OF THE OLDEST CIVILIZATIONS IN THE WORLD, AND ALMOST AS OLD AS ME"—giggles in the room—"SO NOW WE'LL MOVE ONTO EUROPE."

Click, click, the mouse echoed from its podium as the professor moved into the presentation, the projection raying onto two identical screens with one image, the very same, each. Yao raised an eyebrow from the very center of his row, deeming to let his eyes flick from one to the other; it made no difference.

He stared at the projection—the statue of a man in a tunic. A detailed hand had carved away at the face, the skin, so that the marble seemed almost to blaze alive with bronze, and the eyes stared down. There was a collective giggle in the hall as Yao looked, transfixed, upon a familiar jawline, a sharp one that seemed to scream with the want to smirk. How could such a face bring such...such life...

He was tall. The man was very tall, his body long like a tower; and _just flex already _as Yao examined the arms, the legs, the power beneath what turned up as an even dignified kilt. His eyes trailed down, up, down, up, very slowly and respectively; there was no exaggeration here. The likeness was so very realistic; a fantastic, nameless sculptor had etched into history a person, and its build implied a strong resemblance to a living, breathing figure now long gone.

"YOU MAY RECOGNIZE HIM FROM THE STORIES OF OUR RESIDENT GHOST HERE," the professor said, letting them giggle. "THIS IS THE EXACT SAME STATUE THAT STUDENT SAW WHILE STUDYING ABROAD IN ITALY, LEADING TO THE RUMORS OF THE GHOST ON CAMPUS."

Yao stared; beside him, Ludwig's hand twitched.

How to comprehend?—there was something about this realism that sent his mind into a small frenzy; it was as if an inexplicable frustration had touched him, with the potential to surge.

He could see him as if he was alive.

_That hair would be brown,_ he was thinking, _and his eyes almost gold,_ and now he realized as so. He blinked a touch, the thoughts gone like stars.

...

And the stars came back. Yao took his dazed steps down the hall, the memory of the statue strong as alcohol alight in his mind.

"What is your next class?" Ludwig asked politely. He stood to Yao's left.

"Oh, I'm not quite sure, aru..." He reached into his bag for the slip of paper, his schedule. It did not take him long to find nothing—"Aiya, aru, I think I must have left it in class!"

He turned immediately, prepared to duck Feliciano, whom he saw approaching quickly. Ludwig turned slightly beside him, but Yao had not taken more than a step, an apology to his companion half open on his mouth before Feliciano had latched himself to him. He stumbled at the rush.

"VEE, YAO!"

"Aiyaa!" Yao fairly screamed as he went down.

"You left your program back in the lecture hall, are you okay?" The paper was thrust into his face with what Yao deemed as too much enthusiasm. He backed into the floor, then raised his head again, into a different direction. "Oh, aiya, xie xie, Feliciano, aru..." He was babbling; he blinked, slowly stemming the babble as he took the paper, slightly crumpled, back. "Thank you," he said again, and shot him a small smile. Feliciano was such an innocent boy, was he not?—here were Kiku's best friends; the sentiment found him for a moment.

And then it froze.

"Yao?" Ludwig had put a hand on his elbow, suggesting help, but Yao, unperturbed, instead continued staring at Feliciano in a rapture.

That hair would be brown. Darker brown. Lovino's brown. Roman brown. Eyes, as well.

A blink. "Aiya," said Yao, in fascination. "Feliciano. I just realized that...you look a lot like the statue in there, aru. Don't you think so, Ludwig? Thank you..." He let Ludwig help from the floor, but rather pointedly used his own legs and torso to stand; in the end, it was shown, he would have lifted himself without such aid.

"Ah, well...now that you mention it?" Ludwig glanced at Feliciano and his sudden, "vee?" "There was a slideshow in there just now; it had a Roman statue in it," he explained. "It does look very much like you..."

"Imagine it was my ancestor?" Feliciano beamed at the revelation, his flyaway curl—an anomaly in his hair—seeming to spring on its own. "I am Italian after all, and so is Lovino."

But Yao was looking away again. The marble of the floor seemed now to curl upwards and sink its cold past his shoes, into the soles of his feet. For, unbeknownst Ludwig or Feliciano, the statue had come to life.

(Perhaps recalled to life?)

It swept along the floors, the cold; it ran a length rather as a stream, with a shocking freeze, right into the man standing at the other end, looking at Yao; and Yao, without the statue, knew the face.

"Yao?"

One step, two steps, three steps, following it into the stairwell behind the door. He did not need to touch it—on its own, it had opened and closed.

The statue, in all its it warm and Mediterranean colors, was not quite so opaque in the dark and could be seen more clearly. "Salve," said the ghost with its eyes, with Lovino's eyes, but never words and no voice. And had it stayed, there would have been more—as Yao could ascertain later, when the shock had slipped away—but just as quickly, the apparition was exactly was it was: an apparition, quickly gone.

...

_**PT: This is my next big project. I've been brain-dead in writing for the past couple of years, so, you know, critique me, hard. Honestly, I've lost the ability to focus these past couple of years, and my head must be so much the denser because my improvement has slowed; my brain's gotten so fucking stagnant. Please, please critique me. By the way, ever read Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit, my last major work?—that was four years ago, and, Jesus, when I look at it, I die a little on the inside. Despite the flaws I see now, I impressed myself reading it all over again. And look at me now... Oh, and hello, new Hetalian generation. I joined about five years ago and faded out for a hiatus, so coming back now is rather like freaking Captain America waking up and running into a completely new Times Square.**_

_**Ha. Ha. I write about a ghost wandering around a university, and it just so happens that APPARENTLY my dorm is haunted -_- -spectraphobic- That's...fucking great.**_

_**So...yeah. This will be a two-part story, starting with Yao and ending with Gilbert. At least, I think so—I haven't decided yet. Yep.**_

_**Again—PLEASE CRITIQUE. I was, like, flipping tables with this story because I couldn't get it the way I wanted and, hell, I didn't even KNOW what I wanted. It's really difficult, actually, for me to write Hetalia without history involved xD And this is honestly my first straight-up AU. Ever. Sort of. It's rather hard to define this as an AU if you stick around and see what I have in mind for the plot.**_

_**Thank you!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Never, ever, ever._

_..._

It was cool in here. Damp, even. But was it, really?—Yao frowned into the dim, reptilian light. Was this the new temple? The golden Buddhas stared down at him with smiling gazes, the light gleaning from their sides; slick and yellow, like the candles themselves. He stared at them for awhile, at the wood of the shelves, the incense tickling his nose.

No, not damp—incense is dry.

He inhaled a bit, the smoky aroma wavering in the air, and continued. He was looking for something here, if he had not found it already; was it in the walls, that echoed his steps down the maze?

He was looking for something here.

He padded off a little, shoes soft against the floor. Continued walking, inhaling woody air. A scent that one would never grow too old to love, if indeed age could dispel fondness; the thought of it sent a tease into his brain, a feather brushing against the organ (with the vagueness of an itch). The ceiling was high above him, with rafters. He was looking for something here, and he turned a corner, his unfrayed clothing swishing about the ankles: There was darkness here, in a doorless chamber. He gazed at the portal; it was a maw.

And he called, and, somehow, found what he was looking for, here.

He called the name and waited. He would not remember how exactly it happened, the opening of the lights—by candle, by switch, he would not remember, and, indeed, perhaps he used neither—but, he knew that it was by his own will that the light turned on, just as he was answered, and far, far too late—

No, not too late. Late, but not too late, the difference just there by the seconds leading to too late—it was his own fault, too, he would think, more than the other's; otherwise, the scale was, perhaps, equal.

"Kiku?"

"Yao."

Fwip, fwip, a séance was held, and the possessed woman had latched herself to Yao before Kiku himself could narrate it.

...

The alarm took five seconds exactly to peter out as Yao lay awake in bed, the dream drifting away like the unreality it was; it went with his breath as his breathing slowed. It could not be—it would not be—would it—

There was a fear gray like her skin; there had been a pentacle glowing a relativity to green, and it matched the gray; it was encircled, and it had shone from her forehead, and he saw it as she bit him. It was just a dream—but spirits could enter dreams.

Spirits could enter dreams, his mind said, afraid of abandon, and repeated thrice more; spirits could enter dreams, and she could have him, now..._but it was just a dream,_ pressed the side of him that believed in technology, and not magic. But are they not the same?—he lifted one tanned hand in the darkness, looked up, just to make sure, saw Kiku's body rising from the bunk, still quiet and asleep; he looked back down at his hand, at the conjunction of the wrist, and felt for the bite. Clear skin.

Smooth, even; he felt it briefly before lying back down.

He could not sleep now—how could he sleep?—his mind was in panic: But, yet, he sank, still sleepy, and blurred the gray of the dawn into the blackness of his own eyelids. Sleep won panic over; it tided, magic versus technology.

...

Thwack, thwack, thwack. Thwack.

"Robin Hood, bitches," said Arthur Kirkland, sliding another arrow onto the string. "Suck on that, Alfred." Thwack, thwack. Six arrows embedded. The students on either side of him stopped to stare.

"Clear," called Yong Soo. There were groans as everyone surged forward to retrieve their arrows; for most, the target was littered in a messy tangle of arrows; for Arthur, with a smug smile and a half-glance at Alfred, each arrow was one atop the other. Six?—"I'm English," he said to Alfred's unimpressed inquiry. "That's how we shoot frogs like Francis."

Yao shook his head at them; "My Yong Soo can shoot better than them, dui ma, Yong Soo?" He nudged the Korean.

Yong Soo blinked, as if rather astounded at the attention; he recovered quickly. "You know that for sure, Aniki!" He grinned, and Yao, looking at the most familiar face, found regret niggling at the back of his throat; how typical, only in the blink of an eye. "We Koreans could get more than six—we could get TEN!"

"Yes, well, arrows are expensive," said Yao in a considerably stiffened tone; his own arrow came tauntingly closer to the string, as if he willed himself to nock it and, when the bow tilted by his wrist, shoot himself. So quick a change—and he knew it. He forced an inward cringe; it had been waiting to strike.

Blessedly, Kiku emerged at the corner of his eye—Yao looked to the right, saw him. "Aiyaa, there's your brother!" said Yao, not restraining the pride in his voice. He eyed Kiku, and so did Yong Soo.

"Clear," called Yong Soo again, and the line of archers nocked their arrows, fitting the strings into the slits. He had shot four arrows in a neat formation around the bulls-eye—teasing himself, for he tired of perfection—before realizing that Yao, beside him, had not even raised his bow. The quiver was lying by his leg, dangling from his hip flatly; the arrows trembled with his breath. But Yao had not moved; in fact, he was staring at Kiku, and it became so apparent to Yong Soo that he had been doing so since they had begun the new shooting round.

Yao was enraptured; it was quite a way to define—he stared at Kiku, admiring the angles. He felt Yong Soo's shifting behind him, but did not register—without attempting to remember or even know, he would not remember—and continued staring at his oldest brother.

Kiku's form—Yao flicked his eyes downward, saw his heels were indeed perfectly aligned, as were his toes—the back of his entire body straight as a board, it stood; one long, slim arm stretched the bow outwards with the wrist jutting out attractively, the other with the elbow notched upwards, thumb touching his jaw, string touching his cheek; there was a ferocity in the black eyes, a spark of ink touched to ashen paper. Yao allowed himself one blink as he marveled.

When he released, the bow cried out with a sound—the sound snapped thickly, and Yao watched the arrow, not quivering once, stream across the air and _thwack—_in the target, thoroughly immersed within the bulls-eye.

Yao blinked, smiled proudly.

_Like a mother duck._

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwackthwackthwack—

Everyone in the courtyard jumped, turned around.

Thwackthwackthwackthwackthwackthwack—!

"Yong Soo!" Yao and Kiku exclaimed, in a sort of harmony with the arrows; more people turned to look:

Yong Soo, his face a brilliant pink, did not cease once—not at all—and continued shooting, arrow after arrow; eyes a brilliant black steel, brow smooth as marble; Yao could hardly see him draw and nock, he was so fast—one, two, three, four—spare a glance at the bulls-eye, as many Robin Hoods as could be managed before they dropped away in splinters. And then, he continued shooting, not at the center, but now at the rings—aligning them in circles so straight and precise the crowd gasped.

(Anger, it seemed, was a weapon for Yong Soo; anger gave him power.)

One ring finished, now the next, a bigger circle—

Twelve studded arrows in a ring, another layer—

"Yong Soo!" Yao had not been enraptured by the arrows for long—_hao kuai de shou, _he breathed, before recovering—and he lunged forward and seized his brother's bow, forcing it downwards. "Yong Soo!" and the boy looked up, the pink fading to a feverish white; had this terrible look not been so evident, the display would have, perhaps, been so much the more entertaining. As it was, the tension burned.

"Yao."

Kiku stepped forward.

"Aiyaa, look at you, aru!" Yao scolded, loudly. "I don't know how many arrows we lost today, and you know how expensive they are, aru! The club funding can hardly pay for all of them...what's gotten into you?"

Yong Soo's brow was wet.

He blinked. Pulled back.

"Aniki," he said, and let out a breath. "I—I hit the target several times...see? Aniki?" He beckoned across the field at the tattered bulls-eye.

"And several arrows! Are you trying to milk out this club's money?!" Yao's brow furrowed.

Kiku turned quickly, silently beckoning at the other club members. "It's four now," he said, relieved that, at three forty-five, the timing was accurate enough. "You should all go to class."

"But...I don't have class," Alfred piped out. "Can't I just, like, shoot some more—I won't break any arro—"

"We're going to the rifle team now, if that makes you happy," Arthur said, loudly, effectively cutting him off; the blue eyes brightened at once. "Let's go." And, once Alfred's back was turned, he looked at Kiku with a face of long-suffering, frowning; Kiku nodded gravely when he brought his finger slitting across his throat.

It did not take long for the students to drift out; five minutes, if anything. Only then did Kiku proceed to hover over his brothers, watching them.

"Fifteen," breathed Yao, wrenching another arrow from the board. "_Fifteen _arrows, tian a, first the five you broke the other day, now the fifteen—"

"That wasn't me, that was Leon," Yong Soo mumbled. A pause—he looked Yao in the eyes. "If you can look at Kiku just because he's so good at shooting ONE arrow, you can look at me shooting fifteen even better! Archery is a Korean sport—"

"I am sorry," said Kiku, flushing pink. "But that should be no reason to—absolutely not—"

"_You." _Breathing turned harsh as Yong Soo turned to him. "You, always getting everything, worrying Yao-hyung half to death because you're such a _hard worker—" _The last words were spat out, and Kiku blinked as if something really had landed.

"Enough."

A pause.

"_Enough."_

They turned: Yao's eyes were glittering, mouth half ajar after saying it a second time. A rare fire snapped in the pupils; unconsciously, Yong Soo and Kiku both resisted stepping back.

"You. Are brothers," Yao said, "and you don't fight. Especially over something so stupid. You don't fight. Kiku, you should know better."

He could hardly describe to himself the rage, the _fear _crawling in his gut; as if something had soaked it in wine and set it ablaze. Insides burning. He stared forward, feeling afloat in his own mind. "You don't fight. At all," he said again, feeling vaguely that he was being repetitious, even empty. "Yong Soo, I want you to pay for those arrows. Each and every one of them. You have until the next general body practice."

"But that's—"

_You dare talk? _Yao wanted to say, but instead used silence to cut Yong Soo off; his glare was sharp. "Next practice. Now clean up those arrows."

He turned on his heel and walked away.

...

His footsteps were light, his legs like lead; he lifted each one, consciously rolling the joints, the skin. He had no qualms about leaving his brothers to gather the equipment: Yong Soo was the president and, anyway, Kiku was there. Any mess would sort itself up, then.

He turned a corner, breathed a little. A little. Pressed his back against the wall, looked up.

The soccer field where they had been practicing archery had was long; Yao had walked himself, from there, halfway across the campus into the library, skirting the crowds by taking the back stairs up. Fourth floor—_the number of death, really,_ he thought, _but what have you? The institution has regard for number thirteen only. _He shook his head.

The library vaulted upwards into glass panels for a ceiling; it sloped downwards, meeting the walls, the stone of them crawling down to the tiles. Government funds, or student tuition? Yao could not quite tell as he walked to edge of the balcony. He looked across at the painting on the wall, then walked into the cloisters of the Chinese Literature department. As he walked into the office, he reached out and brushed his fingers against the calligraphy on the wall. He had never dared to buy such fine paper.

"Shen ti hao ma?" he said by way of greeting. "Aiyaa...Arthur's here, ahen." And, sure enough, despite Yao's fast rhetoric, Arthur was sitting at the table, quite alone. The office was empty but for him.

"Sh—shut up!" Arthur fumbled with his fingers before pointing out the door. "I finally got away from that wanker, you don't need to be that loud—"

"Alfred, ahen?" Yao strolled, casually, back to the doorframe, peeking out. "Where, ahen?"

Pause.

"What...are you trying to do?" Arthur asked, his voice very near a hiss. Yao could feel a smirk making its way to his lips; his cheek pulled, and he allowed himself that much. Trust torturing Opium to lighten his mood.

"Alfred!" he called, and could practically hear Arthur breaking: The chair retorted as the Briton ducked beneath the desk. Scattering footsteps to the left; Yao retracted his cheek as he saw Alfred running around the corner.

"YAOOO, HAVE YOU SEEN ARTHUR?" _Tian a, he isn't breaking a sweat. _Alfred, hair a little more wild than usual—baby hairs poking at the air—stopped before him. His eyes, big and blue, stared and glowed; _are you excited or worried, even? _Yao thought. "I've been looking for him, he slipped away on the way to the supply room...where all the rifles are, and have you seen him, I swear, he could've gotten abducted by aliens or something—"

"Well, ah—aru." Yao paused, relishing the eyes trained on him—four, not two. He knew it was in his mind, but he could feel Arthur's quaking beneath the desk. "I think I saw him going out the exit, said something about the chem. building..." He pointed.

"Thanks, dude!" And Alfred was off. Yao watched the door clang shut behind him before turning back to Arthur.

"He's gone now, ahen," said Yao. "You can get out now."

A pause, then shuffling; Arthur's head popped out over the desktop. "Bloody hell, you—bloody Asian...," he muttered.

Yao chose to ignore that as he strode to his own desk, pulling out the binder from its corner. "Get out from under Xiao Mei's desk, aru."

"It's Mei's?" Arthur scrambled out from underneath the desk, glancing at the photograph sitting on its left. "It's Mei's."

There was an awkward pause; Yao chose not to say anything more. The excitement was over, and again he was thinking of Yong Soo and Kiku. _Boys will be boys, _he thought, but was not appeased.

He flipped a page. It was louder than he would have liked. _Running script,_ the page was headlined, _Han Dynasty._

"Yes, well...Yao. Actually I—er—"

"Yes?"

Another flip, this time many pages. _Opium Wars. _"What else do you need, ahen? I'm not cooking for you just because your meal points ran out and neither of you can cook for shit."

"You _never _cooked for me, and I can cook perfectly we—"

"Of course you can. What do you want?" A few pages back, _Ming Dynasty._

"You never cooked for me, a'right? Listen, Yao—I need you to do something for me."

"I'm not testing your weed, ahen."

"It's not bloody WEED, a'right?—I smoke better, more high-class stuff than that. ANYWAY—by the way, stop it with the "ahen" business, what does it even mean—I need you to, ah...it's Gilbert."

Yao allowed himself to pause, right over _War with Japan. _"Since when did you care about Gilbert?"

"There was that one time with Roderich..."

"Yes, I remember," said Yao hastily, eyes drifting over _Japan. _"So you're worried about Gilbert. Why?"

He did not look back; he did not need to to feel the hitch in Arthur's breath. "He's been sick, lately, and Francis hasn't been too happy about it. Ludwig's been worrying too. And, Alfred, that damn prat, has started to notice. I think once it actually drives itself into that thick skull of his, he's going to start a riot over 'saving the day.'"

"So it's an issue about Alfred not being annoying, ahen?" Yao said, mockery tracing his voice.

"Absolutely! You think I want that prat banging on my door every night wanting to go over plans with me?"

"What do I have to do with it?" _Japan. Japan. Japan. _Gilbert was sick? _Japan, Korea. Japan. War with Japan._

"I think Kiku's involved."

_Japan, Japan. Japan._

"Why would he?" Yao blinked.

"I don't know. But Kiku's involved. I know it."

"That's rather vague—"

"No, but Kiku...I don't know what's going on, but I think he has to do with it. He's always with Ludwig and Feliciano, in that newspaper club of theirs..."

"I believe your Napoleon said that he fears journalists more than bayonets or something like that, but I don't know what this has to do with anything."

"...Not MINE, FRANCIS'S. You bloody— Well, they're working on ghosts right now, you know? Because of that story about the Roman ghost wandering around."

Yao turned.

_Japan—_

And the attention flexed into a knot. "Yes?"

Arthur blinked, apparently confused before deciding that the focus pleased him. "And I don't know why, but...ever since then...Gilbert's been...he's been coughing a lot. And sometimes he comes up with fever.

"It's not a common cold," he added at Yao's raised eyebrow. "There's just something about it... Something's wrong. I know it. And Kiku is talking to ghosts."

"_What?"_

"I knew you'd react like that. But no, not really, he's just been...he's probably trying to talk to the Roman ghost," he finished, and to say he finished "lamely" would have understated; it was so weak, Yao felt that he could drown in the shame. (He would have loved to; seeing Arthur ashamed was a treat.)

Yao let his nostrils flare, only because he breathed deeply. Thought about it.

He had done nothing about the Roman yesterday. But what was he to say about it?—what was he to do?

"...How does that connect?" he said finally.

"Talk to Kiku."

He laughed. Threw his head back, coughing it out into the air. "I do, Arthur—talk to him, every day."

When he tilted his head back downwards, Arthur was eyeing him. _Such a green, _Yao thought. "You know what I mean, Yao. Talk to him about it. The way I see it, there's no one else who can talk to him. Heracles is out of the country right now, and you're his brother." A beat. "You're his brother."

Was this _fear _now? The air thickened down Yao's throat, pinching his breath.

He coughed another laugh, and his mind felt cold. The fakeness was so real. "But I just did you a favor, Arthur, shooing off Alfred. And now you're asking another thing today. Just like you white people, pushing around the Asians." Another pause; Arthur was, by now, used to Yao's half-joking passes.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to," said Yao, mind pedaling forward, "watch...over...Kiku.

"And by that," before Arthur could ask, "I mean watch over him. If you think he's toying with spirits, maybe your little magic club can work something out. But watch over Kiku. I see him talking to you more and more now, don't deny it. Take that time to watch over him. I'll do my part, you'll do yours. Make sure you can see what Kiku's doing."

And with that, he flipped his binder closed. He could not study here; he would go to his dorm, he thought; it would be empty anyway.

"Atheist China, atheist Yao—it's like you represent your people's Godlessness," said Arthur, the strain of shock overcoming his mockery. "What makes you suddenly believe in my magic?"

Before he knew it, he had taken large strides into the hall. "Mei should be here soon for interning, so I suggest you hold the fort until she comes. Locking this office is too much work, ahen."

Arthur said something else, but Yao did not hear it. It was only once he had gone halfway across campus, beside the lake, did he realize that he could not breathe, and that he was walking with such unusually long strides. Asphyxiation, as if his throat had closed.

He took a deep breath, willing the numbness away.

_The Roman ghost._

_My dream._

_Kiku._

He would not talk to Kiku. Not yet.

...

_**PT: Archery actually is a Korean sport—in that, Koreans have a reputation for it. The same way Chinese people really can't keep away from badminton and ping pong (something that passed over me!).**_

_**Again, trying not to take the story too slowly. I've realized by now that while I've regained much of my adeptness at writing, there still remains the factor that makes writing this so hard for me—it's a huge and complex plot. Many characters involved. Haven't done that since I started on FF net, and, you know, many years ago, writing wasn't that great, beginner, yaddayaddayadda. I am definitely going to have to work carefully to see this to the end. Bit off more than I've been able to chew, really.**_

_**Also, college. I'm in college now. So...really busy. I'm finishing this instead of studying as we speak. (Sacrificing sleep in return to study as well, though—thank God for the weekends!)**_

_**So thank you for reading! Critique is always encouraged!**_


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